


Cutting the Strings

by zarabithia



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-03
Updated: 2006-12-10
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: Slade obsesses over a different Robin. Tim gives up.  Those things work nicely together.





	1. Chapter 1

The problem with Batman’s brand of morality was that it was too restrictive for the average person. Batman didn’t believe in shades of gray, and as his little protégés struggled to cope with a morality that was not truly their own, the restrictive confines of The Bat only grew tighter. Eventually the little birds were faced with an unpleasant but necessary ultimatum: either cut the ties that bind, or allow themselves to be strangled.

At least that was Slade’s theory. He was pretty confident in it, given that it had come directly from a broken Nightwing’s mouth during the all too short time that the eldest bird had taken refuge away from Batman’s grip by hiding under the Renegade mask.

But Grayson had long since left the nest and, if the reports coming out of New York were any indication, was once again comfortable working within Batman’s limits. Slade regretted the kid's absence, not to mention what Grayson's leaving had cost on a personal basis, but he was content to sit back and wait. Sooner or later, Grayson would feel the coils tightening around him again, at which time Slade would be more than happy to offer the boy a way out of his self-inflicted prison.

When that day came, they would have a long talk about what the boy had done to Rose. In the mean time, Grayson's young replacement was doing some struggling of his own.

It took longer for Slade to see Robin’s struggling. The youngest bird was too much like The Bat, which was impressive for his age, though it made him not nearly as fun to taunt as the blue-eyed boy that had worn his successes and failures entirely too visibly on his features. Unlike Grayson, Tim Drake boy wore two masks in battle, one for his eyes, and one to shield any emotion.

Unfortunately for the heroes, the day Superman allowed the new Superboy to join in their battles, the second mask slipped out of place. The blunder was brief, but Slade’s reflexes allowed him to see what perhaps no one else did, including Robin himself.

The battle itself wasn’t special by any definition of the term; it was the standard gathering of heroes, led by the still fledgling assembly of the Justice League as they fought against the standard group of villains. The mercenary did not miss the unusual distance between Robin and Batman during battle and he took note of the apparent disconnect between mentor and protégé. But far more crucial was the fact that when the battle was not yet half over, Deathstroke’s gaze did not miss the proud smile Superman gave his sidekick and the corresponding look of utter hatred that Robin gave both Kryptonians.

Figuring out a reason for Robin’s hatred of the new Superboy wasn’t difficult. The old Superboy’s death had made headlines around the world, and any fool could have seen how close the old Superboy and Robin had been. Apparently, Robin didn’t care much for the replacement.

Although the battle did not go well for Slade’s side, he did gain a very valuable piece of information. From the extra ruthlessness that dictated Robin's fighting style following Superboy’s arrival, it was apparent that Robin was struggling in his binds. Slade was more than happy to provide him the appropriate weapon to cut himself free.

Ms. Cain didn’t think the boy would take the bait, but she was wrong. Moreover, when Drake returned from his mission, blood dry on the green blade, Slade observed a delight and satisfaction on the young man’s face that Slade had never seen on Renegade’s. In that moment, it became clear that this was one little bird that was never going to fly away.

It was a pleasant surprise.

"I wonder," Slade mused to his apprentice, "How your mentors will react to this turn of events."

Drake did not pause in the cleaning of his blade as he responded. "Batman has lost a son before. He’ll get used to it."

"And Grayson?"

"I suppose he will try to _save_ me." Drake’s laughter was unexpected, but not unwelcome. "Which one of us is going to tell him he’s too late?"  



	2. Packing Up and Moving Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At four very different times in his life, Tim goes to the circus.

When Tim was three years old, his parents took him to the circus. It was a special occasion, in more ways than one. Even at that young of an age, Tim was aware of the unpleasant fact that his parents’ time had been measured and carefully shelled out only when convenience allowed.

And at three years old, Tim clung tightly to his father’s hand, pulling the older man along excitedly, heedless of the bodies blocking his way. He greedily munched on blue raspberry-flavored cotton candy, which clung to his face and wriggled up his nose, causing Tim to reach up and swipe at the offending substance. It was too much of a battle for his little fingers to handle, and the cotton candy became a much beloved casualty, falling to the ground with a speed that defied Tim’s best efforts to catch it. Tim cried out, warm and wet tears leaking down his face and making the sticky residue itch, as his prize was trampled by a dozen unaware offenders. His efforts at retrieval were thwarted by the interfering arms of his father, whose steady voice cooed softly in his ear, "Don’t you want to see the acrobats?"

It was enough of a solace that Tim nodded his head and allowed the elder Drake to remove the tear-snot-sugar combo from his face with the handkerchief from Jack Drake's back pocket. The combination of the hot cloth mingled with the tangy-sweet taste of the handkerchief’s contents made Tim’s eyes water as they brushed across his open mouth and stuck to his lips, but Tim held back his tears, because he was a big boy now, and he _did_ want to see the acrobats.

Tim saw them. Dick Grayson smiled down at him with a smile that held all of the promise and unknown wonder of the biggest, most brightly wrapped present Tim had ever seen.

Then Tim sat in the audience and watched the acrobats fall.

When Tim was fifteen, he went to the circus with Kon. Juggling Kon’s abandoned roasted peanuts, Kon’s rapidly melting snow cone, both of their drinks and his own grape-flavored cotton candy shouldn’t have been a difficult task for Robin, but it wasn’t _Robin_ that was drinking up the sight of Kon straining against the tight red sweater he’d picked _on purpose_ to accentuate his muscles. It was _Tim_ who watched as Kon frowned and ran his hands through his own hair in frustration.

Tim wondered what running his hands through that hair would feel like. The scientist in him wondered if Kon’s Kryptonian DNA would make it feel different from regular human hair. . .stronger, thicker, more extraordinary, somehow. The teenager in him wondered if Kon would ever stop wanting Cassie long enough to let him find out.

"This game is _so_ rigged," Kon complained to Tim, before sighing and aiming for the moving duck once again.

Eyes that had been trained by the world’s greatest detective lingered over the muscles that wrinkled the fabric stretched tautly across them. Hands that been trained by some of the world’s greatest fighters remained motionless as the orange liquid from Kon’s snow cone leaked across the back of Tim’s hand. Tim’s rapt gaze traveled from the abdomen to the face, content to analyze the way Kon’s tongue darted out and licked his lips as he concentrated on hitting his target.

As the target was reached, Kon’s lips curved into a smile that had never been directed at Tim. His own muscles twinged as Kon’s arms reached out and accepted the medium-sized blue rabbit he’d won.

Kon asked him if Cassie would like it. "Yes," Tim assured him, the dryness of the peanuts heavy in the back of his throat as he answered.

But Kon was happy, and Tim allowed that happiness to drag him from one concession stand to the next. They never did see the acrobats during their trip. Instead, Tim watched Kon juggle an ever-growing pile of Cassie presents in his arms, and waited for Kon to drop one.

When Tim was sixteen, he went to the circus with Dick. He stood by his brother’s side and watched as the familiar sight of clowns beating one another made a man he’d never known to be weak tremble. He’d sat next to an eerily quiet Dick as the acrobats flew through the air and felt helpless. Talking wasn’t the way of their family, but Tim knew they were on hallowed Grayson territory, not Bat family turf. For that reason, Tim _tried_. He forced his voice to come in deliberate, calm beats which were carefully and purposefully as cheerful as befitted a circus. And Dick’s responses were as guarded and morose as befitted a memorial ground.

But Tim didn’t give up. He kept the banter going during a meal that consisted of cherry-flavored cotton candy for Dick, while he himself upgraded to funnel cake.

The talking didn’t work, so Tim upped his game plan and began adding a brush here and a tap there, the way Dick had so casually done back when they’d first met. . . the way he hadn’t since Donna had died. Even if it wasn't casual to Tim, it was important to Dick, which was enough to enable Tim to pretend that the touches came easily.

The caresses gave way to more.

In the darkness of Dick’s apartment, Tim was introduced to every pleasure he’d never known existed. It felt so _good_ to finally unwrap that present, to finally add feel and taste to the senses that had - and partially always would - crave Dick Grayson. A mixture of cotton candy and coffee greeted Tim’s eager mouth, as Dick's mouth met his, along with the hint of something else _Dick_ -flavored that Tim couldn’t place but did want to spend the foreseeable future tasting as many times as was humanly possible.

Three weeks later, Tim lost his acrobat to Slade Wilson.

When Tim was seventeen and a half, Slade sent him to the circus alone. It was, of course, a test, carefully selected by a man who knew as much about Dick Grayson as Tim Drake _or_ Bruce Wayne did.

Part of Tim wondered if he had fouled up somewhere along the way, if he had done anything at all to have disappointed his new mentor so severely that such a test was necessary. On the other hand, Tim knew enough about the other man’s history with The Titans to know that frequent challenges would be a constant part of his relationship with Deathstroke.

Or maybe it was as simple as Slade knowing that once this mission was complete, he’d have committed a crime far more heinous in the eyes of his previous family than all of Cass and Jason’s transgressions combined. There would be no going home. Never again.

Taking a deep breath to clear his head, the smells of the circus assaulted his senses - a heady mix of spun sugar, fried meat, and funnel cakes combined with the earthier scents of kicked up earth and animal waste. A phantom tingle traced its way over Tim’s skin as he remembered a night dancing beneath cotton sheets with his acrobat. But Tim eased away that memory by reminding himself that he hadn't been the one who had left first.

For the briefest of seconds, Tim caressed the metal in his hands as he contemplated the full weight of the decision he already knew he was going to make. The coolness of the substance permeated his gloves and Tim spared a passing thought to the mentor he’d left behind the day he’d sliced a kryptonite blade across Christopher Kent’s neck.

Even as he mentally relished the memory of Christopher’s stunned expression, Tim shook his head to rid himself of the unwanted positive memories that thinking of Bruce summoned. In his peripheral vision, sparkling neon lights flashed on an abandoned concession stand and the image of Kon’s bloodied corpse replaced every lingering doubt Tim might have had about finishing his contract.

Ultimately, neither his current mentor nor his previous one would approve of Tim’s answer to Slade’s test. Slade wouldn’t approve of the cowardly way Tim had chosen to carry out the contract, as the older man’s particular code of beliefs dictated facing the opponent in combat, not. . .not the method Tim chose.

As for Bruce, the reasons for his disapproval were obvious. But Slade would forgive Tim’s offense in a way Bruce never could.

Thankful that the Flying Petrellis wouldn’t leave behind any orphans in the way that the Flying Graysons had, Tim said goodbye to the smiling Dick Grayson that had always existed in the back of his mind and waited patiently for the image to bid its own farewell before raising his weapon.

Then, from his spot in the shadows, Tim watched the acrobats fall.  



End file.
